


Scars to Your Beautiful

by myria_chan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Battle Couple, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Married Couple, Post-Coital Cuddling, Scars, So Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 23:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19050655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myria_chan/pseuds/myria_chan
Summary: In the afterglow, Jaime and Brienne explore each others’ stories by the scars that mark them.





	Scars to Your Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> This is like the fourth fic I wrote for this couple in like a month. That is an achievement. I love Jaime and Brienne. ♡ it's just too much. *ugly cries*

* * *

He tried to hold still as she meander aimlessly upon the planes of his skin. He being at his best behavior as promised made her stomach churn with irrational happiness. She didn’t know he had it in him to grant her silly requests, much less listen to them, but here they were, basking in afterglow, running calloused touches at the stories written on their skin.

Some of the wounds were fresh, pink from their latest skirmishes. Others faint, fairly negligible, except for the abrupt tightening of muscles, or sharp intake of breath—their meaning far hidden beneath layers of skin and bones.

Brienne’s fingers found a puncture right below his shoulder blade. “What happened here?”

“Seige of Pyke,” Jaime said in a low voice, “An arrow got lucky.”

“And you hated archers since?”

“And I hated archers since, yes.” He grinned jovially that has her rolling her eyeballs. She ought to tell him the great marksmanship of Stormlanders, and how his much reviled archers were key components to Robert Baratheon’s Rebellion, but that was for another place, another time. She planted a kiss on the infernal mark instead, deduced she didn’t want to dampen the moment with thoughts of battlefield.

Wordlessly, she traced an old crescent moon mark at the back of forearm, frowning a bit on how it got there.

“I gifted Tyrion a mare on his nameday. The little steed wasn’t friendly.”

Brienne smiled at that, thinking it sweet of him. Trust Jaime Lannister to spread a little kindness and receive the worst end of the bargain. She planted her lips on that old wound as well and asked no more, still avid on the discovery of other hidden mark in peculiar places.

His skin was pure gold, soft and warm, they mold under her fingertips. His chest was broad and softly furred, arms sinewy and carved; legs rippled like mountains, crafted like the venerated statue of the Warrior from the Great Sept of Baelor, only tangible, real.

_Hers._

A wince had her eyes drawn back to his face, her jovial marauding having grazed lightly over a freshly bruised skin on each side of his ribs.

“Lord Selwyn,” he admitted, albeit a bit amusedly, “His hug is as formidable as his temper. Remind me to offer a handshake to your father instead the next time he decides to offer his congratulations.”

“He’s your father too, you know,” she reminded him. Eyes downcast and she could tell his cat green eyes glow, how his smile brightened the room. She liked him like this—she decided—all smiling and chatty and blissful. If intercourse could improve a man’s disposition, Brienne just might be persuaded to bed him nightly.

Her eyes widened when he began his own adventure, thumb running down a faint, barely traceable stitches on her left hip.

“Ten and six,” she shivered a bit—his touch was cool but insistent, rubbing on the old wound as if he intended to erase them from her skin all together. “Ser Wagstaff wanted to whip me into submission as a proper lady of the court.”

His eyes darkened. “I should pay him a visit.”

Brienne chuckled at that, smoothing the frown lines off his high forehead. “No. No. You’re not to kill him. Besides, I’ve already dealt him a cruel blow by breaking the engagement as well as three of his bones.”

Jaime leaned further into her touches, as if they calm him, as if they need to reassure him he wa better than his baser instincts. Or maybe, he just liked being touched by her mannish hands.

They kiss each other then, melting into the comfort of each others’ embrace and scent. It had been too long since they had a moment alone, and right now, each blessed heartbeat was a luxury. His fingers curled in her hair, slanting their heads so they could sink further, delve deeper, melded together.

She found another old scar above his knee, caressed with nimble fingers until he pulled back with a terse word.

“Five,” he muttered bleakly, didn’t like to be interrupted, or perhaps, didn’t like the memory that accompanied it altogether, “I fell from the bluffs. Father never let me live it down.”

Brienne didn’t press on. His childhood must have been awful for him. But then again, wasn’t it for everyone.

Her thoughtful contemplation came to a staggering halt as he trailed on the frayed edges of claw marks, first with his fingers, then with lips, each touch a console, a vow. She still hadn’t told him of her adventures at Riverlands, her encounter with the remnants of the Brave Companions. Terror came close.

He stopped abruptly when his fingers grazed upon the sensitive skin on her inner thigh, a thin frown settling like a thundercloud on his beautiful face.

“You did that.” He cocked his head at the side, not remembering. Her lips perked to a pert smile. “Our first fight at Maidenpool.”

Realization dawned in his features like the first ray of sunshine after the long night. “A red blossom,” she could swear she heard him purr; pushing her legs further apart. Gooseflesh rose on her skin at the first touch of his tongue, her breath caught, her pulse quickened. Her fingers instantly buried to his golden locks.

_“Jaime.”_

Her plea was left unheeded as he set upon the futile quest of worshiping his brand on her skin with his mouth and teeth. Brienne bit on the covers, trying not to moan. He was close, so dangerously close, that if she were to move, they would be in a terribly compromising position.

She remembered of another scar, one buried deep within her, one he dealt so fiercely the first night they joined as one—twin swords forged from a single blade. She remembered the slight quiver of his mouth, the pleasure dancing in slits of his cat eyes of seeing her maiden’s blood upon his shaft, before they dissolve in pure horror at the sight of her tears. If he so much as kisses her _there,_ she swore to the old gods and new, she would rip his cock off.

Chuckling, he finally listened to her silent protests and climbed back up, smoothing the tangled nest that was her hair, gentler on the deep bite on her cheek, whispering dirty little promises in her ear until she relaxed his touch once more.

“You should put marks on me,” he challenged, grin deliciously devilish at the prospect of new cuts. “Sword wounds and lashes, groom me to be a proper lord of the court.”

“I already did.”

Her left hand wandered upon his right, and met the blunt smoothness of his stump. Jaime stiffened. The magic was broken.

Brienne didn’t let him move away, wouldn’t let him run away from her this time. They struggled and shifted, headboard banging against the wall to their feud. Using her full weight, she pinned him further into the mattress and restrained him. Jaime refused to look at her.

She raised his stump to her mouth in retaliation, kisses the spoils of her victory to his disgust.

Jaime shifted from beneath her, eyes blazing with caution. “You didn’t take my hand away from me.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow, slightly at ease that he didn’t blame her for this misfortune. “This hand, your sword hand, your pride, your legacy—the one you’ve lost to preserve my virtue. I’m much of a reason for its lost as those Bloody Murmurs.”

“It’s hideous,” he said tersely, jaw clenched tight.

“I’m hideous,” she cried aloud, voice croaked and unmelodious. She pressed his stump her battered cheek, rubbing the roughness against the tender skin of his bare skin, wanted to kiss the disgrace away, to ease away the pain and horrors, wanted to live in a world where he didn’t have to feel less of a man by being honorable.

He scrambled to sit up, crushed her in a tight embrace, murmuring sweet nothings, ever the gallant knight to his not-so-fair maiden. “No, no, no,” he crooned repeatedly, cradling her back and forth, _“you_ are beautiful.”

She wanted to believe that, wanted to be beautiful by virtue of the scars that define her, wanted to be more than what mirrors and truth tell her. But perhaps that was how he saw himself.

Perhaps he too share her broken sentimentalities.

“So are you,” she whispers to him with that in mind.

Brienne allowed hands to roam on the expanse of his back, dancing on the precipices of his conquests and victories, tracing the bitter defeats that mar his perfection with humanity, wondering which one of these battle scars to thank for aligning his destiny with hers.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Feedback? Love? Thank you for reading, regardless. ♡


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